


Yacht

by Writer_47



Series: Nurture [1]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25821376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writer_47/pseuds/Writer_47
Summary: #1)  First venture in the Gerri/Roman world... For my own peace of mind I had to do something with the missing time on the yacht. Contains some mature scenes.
Relationships: Gerri Kellman/Roman "Romulus" Roy
Series: Nurture [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1883719
Comments: 23
Kudos: 69





	1. Chapter 1

He can’t remember seeing her in a swimsuit before, which is ridiculous really because he must have done. They’ve holidayed together since he was a kid – something he doesn’t like to dwell on truth be told because it reminds him of the great fucking pig in the room, her age – but in a swimsuit, she looks good and he can’t stop looking. He’s positioned himself in one of the loungers, cap on, glasses on, staring like some prepubescent kid with a permanent hard-on for his latest crush.  
  
She must have done twelve lengths now, back and forth, back and forth, he tries to keep his head still so nobody can tell his attention is fixated.  
  
Not been like this before.  
Not sure what to do with it.  
  
There’s been a hundred models, actresses, socialites, call girls (his rule has always been the same, keep em young and at a distance) over the years. Sex has never been part of it all. Just some weird ass shit multiple therapists couldn’t figure out for him and he’s too bored with it all now to jigsaw it together.  
  
And then unexpected phone calls and coming on her bathroom door.  
  
He finds himself regularly thinking of her blue silk pyjamas.  
  
Frustrated he jumps up, bounces to the side of the pool, bombs in as she’s halfway down the pool and disrupts her rhythm momentarily, she hardly pauses, rides out the mini wave and passes him. His sunglasses are splattered with water and he stands there like a fool as she turns at the end and sweeps past him again.  
  
Pushing on the edge of the pool he launches himself up and perches on the side, swinging his feet into water, removing his sunglasses and blinking into the high afternoon sun.  
  
She swims gracefully, he thinks, her hair is clipped up and only a few tendrils drop and scoop across the top. Her shoulders high, her arms strong as she moves forward.  
  
When she’s getting closer he thinks she lifts her chin slightly, angles it towards him, he can’t see her eyes properly due to the position of the sun, but he likes to think she’s glaring. He lifts his legs when she’s close enough, flicks his foot and sprinkles of water hit her face. She is glaring then, he’s sure of that.

But she turns again, ignoring him. He is centre of attention, she can’t ignore him. He’s started texting her at parties, from across the room, because her phone is always in her hand, and he can send her obscenities and flirtations and she (usually) replies and he has her attention, if just for 15 seconds she was thinking of him. And besides, he likes to see her smile, it’s so rare but he’s noticed now how she smiles for him, or at him, whichever it doesn’t really matter.

She’s near him again and he lifts his legs, splashes more forcefully so it disrupts her again, splashes her face and she stops now to wipe her eyes.

“Hey asshole, leave her alone.” Shiv’s voice, he’d forgotten she was still there, staring at him over the top of her phone. He gives her the middle finger but by the time he’s done so Gerri has turned again and is halfway down the pool.

He leans back, tilts his head up to the sun, lets his cap fall off, scans the sky for a few seconds then he’s bored again.

He feels the water move around his legs and knows Gerri is turning – fuck, she must be on at least twenty lengths – he wants her to ride him as slow and steadily. The somewhat surprising and unbidden thought makes him stand, he gets to his feet, his shadow falling over her as she swims.

Her stroke may be graceful but she’s slow and he takes the opportunity and dives in, years of lessons and he’s fairly lithe anyway, so he slips into the water easily and slides along the bottom of the pool, beneath her as she swims.

He thinks this is the first time he’s been under her – physically speaking, and he’s hard as he emerges at the other side, popping up in front of her. She actually smiles, well, a half smile and her eyes change, brighter, her face crinkles somewhat, as if for a split second she forgot anyone else was around. This briefest of exchanges charges him and he moves quickly, pushing down on the edge of the pool lifting himself out and sitting on the edge, legs crossed, a nonchalant expression upon his face, chin resting on his hands.

Her face is turned towards him as she swims the last few lengths. That hard as iron look she has when she’s going in for the kill, he lives for it now, watching her expression in meetings tells him all he needs to know about which way to vote. He’s surprised when she lifts a hand mid-stroke and tugs on his ankle so hard he topples forward and face plants the water. When he splutters to the surface she swats at him, sending the water into his face. He’s laughing as he returns it and for a couple of minutes they stand like children swiping at each other.

Then Gerri seems to remember where she is and who she is and she pushes past him, reaching the steps, climbing out, finding her robe.

“Hey come on, come back and play, Lady MacBeth.” His stomach is fluttering with joy, a long-forgotten childhood sensation.

“Fuck off, Roman,” she is already heading to the bar, her back to him, “Go play on the slide with the other children.”

He clambers out, falls onto a lounger beside Shiv and groans, languid in the sun.

“What the fuck’s going on there then?” She snipes.

He reaches for her cocktail, picks at the cherry from the side of the glass. “What, me riding Gerri, she loves it really, hot for me.”

“You’re flirting with her.”

“That’s disgusting. You’re disgusting.” He shakes his body, sending some of the remaining water droplets flying. But the thought that Shiv has noticed something excites him all over again.

He flops back, closes his eyes, stretches his body and thinks he’ll sleep, a sudden wave of exhaustion, he hasn’t slept properly for days. Meetings and threats and fear flashes through his brain, he replays it all, relives it all, and then Gerri’s face swimming in between, her eyes on him, never ceasing.

A hand to his arm wakes him and he jolts forward, almost knocking out the attendant and he thinks of firing out at the guy, his hands balled into fists ready to defend himself.

"Sorry, Mr Roy, people are preparing for dinner.” He blinks rapidly, mumbling, glancing around at the now empty pool area. He hears Frank laugh by the bar and he shoots a look across and spots Gerri with him, his hand is on her arm and he’s whispering something to her and she’s looking at Roman – staring, a hand to her forehead and he fucking hates that old bastard.

He shuffles off the lounger, tries to stand and tips forward a little, disorientated by the afternoon spent sleeping in the sun.

He brushes off the attendant and stomps toward the bar, shoots them a pointed look and passes by.

Down the corridor he realises she is behind him, not rushing, not chasing, but she’s there and when he stops by his cabin door she stops too, a curious expression on her face until he steps inside, holds the door aloft and she goes in.

“Well, ain’t this a first, you visiting me.”

“Are you okay? You seemed dizzy out there.”

“Yeah, no, course, just the err, the sun and what have you. Getting some shut eye.”

She tilts her head to one side, how she does at times, regards him like a bird on a perch surveying. “You wanna tell me about what happened?”

“Not particularly,” he’s fiddling with whatever he can lay his hands on as he moves around the room. The disastrous attempt to discuss things with his siblings still smarts and he’s pissed off with her anyhow. “Go laugh it up with Frank.”

"I wasn’t,” she folds her hands together, she’s wearing one of those loose silk things now over her swimsuit, he can still see the tie of it around the back of her neck, “and even if I was… Well, I wasn’t.”

“Wanna skip the paint-by-numbers dinner, get shit faced and fuck all night?”

She’s always been quick enough to keep up with his mental aerobics, perhaps the only one who can and her face never changes as he speaks, hands never move from being folded in front of her stomach.

“I think there are conversations we can’t afford to miss. And besides, I didn’t think you did.”

“Did what?” He flops back on his bed, skin feeling somewhat sore from the pool and the salt air and the sun.

“Fuck.”

It makes his skin prickle to hear her say the word.

“Word on the street is you don’t even kiss, let alone have sex.” He looks up at her now, wide-eyed, skin so red and tight he feels like it’s going to crack open like a snake shedding. “Separate bedrooms mostly, or so I’ve heard,” she shrugs.

“Hmm, must have used a pretty shitty researcher then, because legend has it I’m quite the animal.”

“Well,” she tuts, he’s sure she does and he closes his eyes because he’s not sure why he’s saying these things to her, lying to her, he’s always tried to be as honest with Gerri as he can be and she sounds like some school ma’am now tutting at him and he’s flooded with memories of being a disappointment in that private establishment too.

He can hear her cross the room, wonders if she’s leaving but then he realises she’s in his bathroom and he strains to look behind him, at her upside down, she’s going through his toiletries.

“Hey, what’s the deal Geraldine?”

“Good God don’t call me that. You have nothing of use here.”

“Yeah, I’m real sorry, I don’t carry my dildo with me on family trips.”

“Ha fucking ha, you need cream for your skin, you shouldn’t have slept in the sun with no protection on.”

He figures she’ll add ‘stupid boy’ only she doesn’t, and there’s a surprising tenderness in her tone which he isn’t used to from anybody, let alone her, and yet often these days he thinks of her as being the most tender with him.

“And in all honesty,” he can’t help but joke, pushing to sit up on his bed and regard her properly as she stands in front of him, “I’m really good with protection, like totally got it covered, so if that’s something bothering you about my earlier offer well no need,” he clicked his tongue, “it’s all sorted babe.”

She purses her lips, is a second away from rolling her eyes but there’s something in his demeanour since he boarded the yacht, or maybe it’s her own muddled feelings clouding the issue. She can pick out his cologne in a room now, scans crowds for him when she arrives – she has no time for any of these things.

“You don’t really want to have sex with me.” She says confidently.

“Oh, don’t I?”

“No. What about Tabitha? Where is she during this trip?”

He shrugs, the death sex could potentially have been the nail in the coffin of that particular what-have-you.

“I’m twice your age.”

“Well no,” he frowns, “because that would make you seventy-odd-fuck, and you aren’t. Clearly.”

“And you could have some hot young ass here in a minute.”

“Yeah, but like you said, I don’t fuck them.” He breathes deeply, because admitting this is like drawing out some dark mangled worm he’s had living inside him for the past year or so, that he desires her, has fixated on her. “I kinda think I wanna… you know, do stuff, with you.”

“Do _stuff…_?” She tuts again. Sighs. Arms folded around her body. “You should get a shower, get ready for dinner.”

“That’s it? Bearing my fucking soul here Ger.”

She purses her lips again but he swears there’s the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the edges.

“You want to sit next to each other at dinner.” She offers. “ _Protection_.” She adds as an afterthought.

He’s the one to roll his eyes at her attempt at humour. “Sure. No funny business mind, got my reputation to think of.”

She drops her arms, the loose dress moving with her body as she heads to the door, “That’s what I’m afraid of. Besides, I need to concentrate, focus.”

“On what?”

“Keeping myself out of prison.”

*

She’s seems elusive to him all evening, and for some reason he’s in no mood for the usual shenanigans and besides the mood is fucked anyway. Everyone dancing on the edges of what they really want to say, the discussion they’re all waiting for Logan to dive into and rip them apart with. He disappears out onto the top deck at the first opportunity, for a long time lazes on a lounger staring at the stars and then leans over the edge of the yacht, watching the dark ink of the water lap the side of the boat, the gentlest of breezes swaying them.

Her hand on his back should have made him jump, but its fleeting and gentle against his shirt, and before he’s fully registered the fact it’s her, her fingers have moved again and her hand grips the rail next to him. He stares at the back of her hand for a long time, her skin is softer, looser, than the women he’s dated, the colour is slightly blemished and there’s this cock-sucking huge ring on her finger which makes him smile.

“So, you want space?’

“Mm, sure,” he rests his chin on the railing instead, pushing his back out and bending his body. Her fingers are near his mouth now and he wonders what she’d say if he licked one.

“Because I can go or…”

“Did you bring booze?” He tilts his face over, his cheek against the metal now as he looks up at her.

“What do you take me for?” She nudges her chin behind them and he spots the bottle of Bourbon on a table.

“Fucking ace fairy godmother, that’s what.” He loops his body round, and she turns, leaning back now against the side of the boat and watching him, the way he moves like some contortionist. “What?” He asks, pouring measures into the two glasses. “Not a fan of that one?”

“Hmm, godmother rather draws up certain connotations.”

He sucks the liquor between his teeth, “Yeah, yeah, I get that. But fuck what else have I called you.”

“Admittedly, it does on the surface appear a step-up from ‘wallpaper’ or ‘filing cabinet’ so there is that.”

He laughs loudly at that, at the memory of saying it. When he looks at her again she is looking him over, as if weighing him up, and he likes the way her elbows are bent and resting on the railing, and her hips are pushed forward, and the long skirt she’s wearing is moving in the breeze and her hair looks like some kind of golden crown he wants to bury his face in.

“You know,” he says, “I meant both of those things in the kindest possible terms.”

“Oh yeah, obviously,” she moves towards him now, or rather, towards her chair and the waiting drink. “Only a filing cabinet sounds totally bland and un-fuckable.”

“True. True. Unless you think about the fact it has drawers… that open.” He tilts his drink at her and she shakes her head, smiling.

He picks up on it, dives on it quick, “Since when did you find me amusing rather than just a pain in your ass?”

“Who says I don’t still find you a giant pain in my ass?”

“Quite.”

She bites down on her bottom lip, flicks it between her teeth then shrugs, “Who knows.”

He stares at her, her pale eyes holding his, she never blinks, never wavers. ‘Yeah,’ he thinks ‘who knows when crushes start and end, where the real stuff kicks in.’ He can remember as a teen crushing on her one summer on the beach, before he even really knew what shit he was into and the thought of having an older woman was just some sort of daydream and it certainly wasn’t what he would do for real, in the real world, because Dad would certainly not approve. But yeah, an older woman, here he was, he’d hang himself dry for her.

“So, I was thinking of what you said earlier and really I don’t even think Dad would contemplate it being you.”

She raises her eyebrows, “Why not? I would. If I were advising him, drawing up a list on the outside, I’d throw me in the mix. High enough to know enough to take the fall, not close enough to the family to really matter.”

“But you are family, close enough, I mean.”

The thought of Gerri being imprisoned makes his heart thump; it feels like a weight in his chest. He had time to reflect on a few things while trapped in that fucking hotel – that he was seeking her out, texting her at will, bringing up her name when possible in conversation so others would focus on her and he could simply say her name to them for the sheer thrill of it. Knowing what he did about the two of them. Knowing the sound of her husky and dripping with insults over the phone as she listened to him come. There had been a handful now, and that bathroom thing, and he honestly wasn’t entirely sure what it all meant or where it was going but the truth was… The truth was his affections had shifted, and Tabitha meant very little now because she had his sole undivided attention in a way no other woman ever had. It was a bit like spinning for years knowing that there’s one magnet that can draw your attention and focus you in but you ignore it because it’s easier to keep spinning and then the roundabout stops and you shake and blink your way into recognising what it is you should have been focussing on for years. Or rather, who.

She had looked away from him as he daydreamed, out to sea, content to be silent with him, and his eyes traced the line of her chin and down her neck, the only real obvious sign of her age when he really reflected on it. And how odd would it be if he just started turning up to events with her as his date, anyway? Would people even comment? There’d be rumours and tabloid gossip, and his Dad would likely throw a fucking fit but did it matter – really? In the grand scheme of things it’d all blow over and then he could maybe just kidnap her and have her live with him. All that jazz. The world would keep going and practically every businessman he knew round the conference table had some younger wife so would it be all that different, all that scandalous, if it was reversed?

But he was getting ahead of himself and in the here and now they were sitting in silence on an empty deck, drinking, the sound of the sea, the black night and the warm breeze. And the threat of losing her.

“You know, we made a deal.” He said, breaking the silence.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, cover each other’s ass, so to speak. And your ass looked fine in that swimsuit today.”

A half smile from her.

“But whatever, I mean, in reality, besides all that, I’ve got your back you know. I won’t let him ship you out.”

“I appreciate that,” she fleetingly touched his arm where it lay on the table and it seemed even more intense because she hardly ever touched him. “But the truth is, you might not have the power to stop him.”

He felt like a petulant boy, he would not let it happen, would not let her go. Desperation suddenly set in.

“Well, it can’t because like, you – in prison – come on! You’re not cut out to be someone’s whore.”

She actually chuckled, he heard it, a real bona-fide chuckle, and her shoulders shook and he saw her breasts wobble in the top she had on.

“But then even if you are thrown in the clink you know, there’s still phones…” He was refilling her glass as he said this and he leaned over move, clinking his glass against hers.

She screwed her nose a little, again a feature he’d noticed more and more now he watched her closely. Like how soft her face looked that night in her room without makeup, or how the robe on her bathroom door smelled of her perfume.

“Secure lines are they, in prison?”

He shrugged, “Would it get someone off, listening in?”

She seems to shrink slightly at that statement, sits back in her chair and crosses her legs.

“What would be in it for me?”

And there it is, the thing that’s been at the back of his mind niggling. Because the long and short of it is, when he actually gives himself five fucking minutes to think it through, is she getting him off to move herself into a position of power? Or does she actually enjoy this – whatever this is.

“Million-dollar question,” he says, eyes fixed on her. “What does the ice bitch get from it?”

She shoots him a glare then, taps her nails against her glass and he wonders, for a second, if perhaps he’s pushed too far.

“You know, if he does say your name tomorrow, I have a plan.”

She licks her lips, raises her eyebrows.

“Yeah, if he’s gonna name and shame _the_ Gerri then here’s the deal – We. Take. The. Yacht.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a fucking fool proof plan, we throw everyone overboard, or drop them back at shore, whichever you think works. And then we take the yacht, sail off into the sunset, live in protected waters somewhere.”

“Right.”

“It’s perfect, we can hanker down, spend our time swimming, sunbathing and fucking. Perfect.”

“As fugitives?” He nods at her question. “For the rest of our lives?”

“Exactly.”

She turns in her chair, her can hear the sound of her skirt rustling against the floor, “Is this another way to abduct me?”

“Ah, you remember that. Think it over at all or just… what…?”

“Oh yeah, I lie in bed at night turning over whether or not I want to be kidnapped by Roman Roy.”

She empties her glass, is tempted to have a third but leaves it for the moment.

“Speaking of kidnap…”

“Ahh fuck, and we were flirting so nicely.” He gets up from his chair, stalks around the edge of the boat looking down below to spot other members of his family still lounging around, chatting, drinking, all that shit. The thought of having his head between Gerri’s thighs up here pops into his brain and he drowns in that for a while, turned on at the thought of having her right here on the white sofas whilst everyone is down below.

When he comes out of his funk she has moved too and is sitting on said sofa beside where he’s kneeling. Glass in hand, sipping silently, waiting for him to be ready.

“You know Jamie picked you to marry.”

“In what regard?”

“Kill, fuck, marry.”

“Ahh. Who’d he want to kill?”

“Ray.”

“Obviously.” She looks out to sea, “Least he didn’t want to fuck me.”

“Small mercy.”

“Yep.”

“Doesn’t marriage indicate some form of sexual encounter though, occasionally at least.” He says into the cushion.

She can’t help but smile at that, “Not always.” She thinks of his half-arsed proposal, a quasi-proposal, and momentarily thinks of bringing it up but that seems like a conversation she doesn’t have the energy for.

And so, they’re silent again, he has slumped down beside her, his legs up on the couch, head lolling on the edge by her knee. He’s staring at her feet, polished pink nails, he’s never thought about the fact she gets woman stuff done – nails, hair, waxing – he wonders where she goes, where she finds the time.

“I was worried,” she says lowly, as if admitting this makes her weak, “did my best to find out what was happening, get you out of there.”

He moves his head slightly, his forehead nudging the side of her leg. She’s the only one to express concern.

“Odd, being there, wondering if you’re being taken out to be shot in the head, or tortured, which is worse clearly. Some sweaty guy yanking my ball sack off, pulling out my toenails.”

“Is that what you thought of, when you were in there?”

“Yeah. And other shit too, life and stuff. You know, the big stuff.” He’s picking at a loose thread hanging from the cushion he’s lying on.

“Mmm.”

He likes the tone in her voice, closes his eyes at it, like a lullaby, warm and content tucked up against her.

“Didn’t really worry about dying though, just how, like I don’t want to come across as a fucking piss my pants schoolboy but didn’t fancy going like that.”

“Well no, Rockstar needs to go out in a blaze of glory.”

“See. You get me. Helicopter crash or…”

“Paragliding accident.” She suggests.

“Yes! Fucking asteroid or some shit.”

“High on pills whilst performing centre stage.”

“Or being ridden into oblivion by some fucking hot legal counsel.”

Despite herself she laughs at that and her hand falls to his head, he can feel her fingers in his hair lightly stroking, and oddly, distinctly oddly, he doesn’t feel aroused by it. Even though it’s the first time she’s really touched him in an intimate way. There’s no erection. It’s like being comforted.

He shifts a little at her touch, to let her know he’s enjoying it, pushes his head just enough for her to get the message and she uncrosses her legs and allows him to place his head in her lap as she strokes his hair.

“Multi-million-dollar yacht blowing up, that’s a way to go.” He says against the material of her skirt.

“Yeah, not if it’s the one we’re going to live on.”

“Ah, warming up to the idea are you?”

“It has his merits I’ll admit. I think I could quite get used to evenings like this, a warm breeze, clear night.”

“Company?”

“Accepted.” He hears her move slightly; imagines she’s turned her head to look out at the view. He wonders what would shock people more – if they came up and found him eating her pussy or this, just lying here with his head in her lap, like she’s fucking Santa Claus.

He quite fancies the idea of her dressing up as Mrs Claus now he thinks on it.

“What is this?” He whispers.

“I have no idea.” She replies. “Do we need to label it?”

“I guess not. Just…”

She tilts her head down to him, observing his expression in the dim light, “Just?”

“Don’t disappear.”


	2. Chapter 2

He feels better in the morning, hungry for a start, and fresh because he actually slept for more than a half hour. A full sleep, laden with the memory of her touch and her scent and her soft, soft voice. Granted he might have enjoyed sleeping up there on her lap but she insisted at some point they needed to climb down from their hide and go to bed. Separately. And seeing as at the moment she seemed to have his nuts in her hand he went with her instructions.

The full quota are gathered around by the time he goes out, helping themselves to breakfast, he mooches along the pastries searching for something. Spots her across the other side of the line spooning fruit into her bowl, she’s wearing some kind of summer-green dress all light and frills and she looks incredibly delicate which is a mother of a wake-up call because Gerri is far from delicate. She’s got balls of steel he swears.

He should eat more fruit, think of his health. He orders a vitamin-filled super green smoothie and feels a momentary burst of pride for doing so.

The thought of Logan putting off for the day the decision-making rattles him, he can’t stand waiting around, pacing the floor. So when they all gather to sit and the conversation gets going spontaneously he’s initially pleased. And then Kendall suggests Gerri as the sacrifice, and Roman’s heart stops.

He shoots her a furtive glance, she does her best to avoid looking at him, because she’s not sure what she’ll find when she does look. But she can hear his voice, throwing Frank under the bus instead.

For a minute or two he relaxed, there’s discussion back and forth and then her name is raised again, and then a third time, and he’s panicking now and yeah the idea of them stealing the yacht and sailing off into the sunset was all a big joke but now he’s actually fucking considering it because Christ it can’t be her. Not her.

He doesn’t flounder when he speaks, takes a long drink of his smoothie between sentences to form an explanation that appears both sane and logical and not at all tempered by the fact he thinks he might be forming some kind of life-long attachment to this woman. He wonders where this bravery came from, he can think back a few months and know when quizzed on the spot in the same situation he laughed it off like an idiot. Or even the Boar hunt when Gerri sat beside him, enveloped in something pink and soft and luxurious, he didn’t feel the same panic when she had to stand that he does now.

He can remember her fingers fastening his buttons.

He’s thinking of that when his Dad draws things to a close, gets up and disappears because that what he does at times like this to string them all along. And he shoots her a long look. She is pale, biting on her lip, and the bowl of fruit pushed away, no longer hungry.

And so the day will unfold, he sits there for a while waiting for something to happen, trying to eat a pastry and considering what things would be like if he weren’t here, if he was still out in Turkey. Who would have defended her then?

People scatter, swim, sunbathe, read, listen to music. He wanders the deck for a while and watches Greg and Willa on the slide into the ocean. Usually he’d be with them, life and soul and all that. When he thinks he’s killed sufficient time wandering around and being seen he heads off back to the cabins, there’s been no sign of Gerri since breakfast broke up and he surmises she’s working.

He taps continually on her door until she opens it – and she stands back behind it, not even aside, granting him entrance without even looking who it is.

He scans the room as he enters, notes her things about, the scent in the air, her hairbrush on the bedside table. Her laptop is set up on a table by the window.

“So, I thought you might have gone off to cook up some amazing majestic plan to save us all because that’s what you always do.”

He’s not even looking at her, just floating around her room as casual as can be. She’s by the bed, putting distance between them.

“Afraid not, not this time.”

“Come on Superwoman, save the world again.” He stops then, at one side of the bed staring over at her. She still looks so delicate in that dress but she shakes her head, there is nothing, she has nothing.

“Roman, look,” she pulls her hand through her hair, “I’m not really feeling in the mood for our little games or whatever it is you’ve come in here for.”

“It can’t be you.” He interrupts, before she can hurt him by referring to what they do as a ‘game’.

She shrugs, “Yes. But it might very well be, going on what was said.”

“Those guys fucked you over.”

“I would have done the same. Look, I’m dispensable, kind of.”

This time he shakes his head.

She’s not sure what to do with all this, she suddenly feels very awkward and claustrophobic and she comes around the bed wringing her hands together trying to pull herself back into her normal, no-nonsense work mode. A safety net.

“I’m just trying to tidy a few things, I mean everything’s secure, for my daughters and… you know,” she’s pressing something on her laptop. “But just to be sure they’re provided for if I lose everything.”

He catches hold of her wrist, means to get her hand but it’s her wrist he gets, and she stops then and turns towards him and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so completely sure in his life. No nerves, no questions.

He tugs her to him, if she’s surprised she doesn’t show it, she merely moves the few inches between them, still standing slightly sideways to his body.

He’s never been entirely sure of himself with any of this stuff, he knows what to do and what goes where but he doesn’t believe he’s very good at it. But this time, when he moves his mouth to hers, he’s pretty sure this is how it’s meant to feel.

She tilts her head slightly to accommodate, and her mouth is soft and warm and seems to fit so well against his that when he parts for air he immediately draws back and kisses her again. All the time holding her wrist in his hand and her body askew to his.

He thinks she might be smiling when he stops kissing her, is aware of her eyes fluttering open and the intense blue of them and she’s so close now he could devour her.

She lifts her arm as if to make a point and he lets go of her wrist, and now she turns to fully face him, her chest against his.

He wants to hold her but daren’t.

“I asked you a question last night that you didn’t answer,” he says softly, and then he’s full of bravado again as he tries to shrug it off and make out it meant nothing important. “And you always answer straight, no bullshitting, I’ve always appreciated that.”

“Okay.” Her voice seems off, as if its clouded with something. It doesn’t occur to him until much later that it was likely desire and that maybe she wanted him too.

“What do you get out of all this?”

She allows herself a pause, a small smile, a narrowing of the eyes as she steps in closer still, their bodies touching at every possible point.

“You.” She says and her eyes never leave his.

He’s not sure if she means that in a predatory fashion or not, the way he feels right now he’d lie to himself anyhow because spreading that band-aid over his fears is all he can do to keep his head straight and get through each fucking day.

He slumps down to the edge of the bed, his pulse is racing and he can hear his own heartbeat.

“Does high blood pressure cause a heart attack?” He asks her, rubbing his forehead.

She steps forward into his space, almost between his legs, and he lifts his hands because by standing there she is giving him permission. His fingers toy with the lightness of her dress a little, and then his palms come to rest on her hips and just hold her there, keep her there, because this wonderful fucking terrifying genius of a woman could be anybody’s or anywhere and that she’s choosing to stand there with him and let him have her time is overwhelming.

She is still at first, trying to cling on to this thin thread that makes her who she is, the core of her, whilst her heart and brain are clashing over which direction this whole messy business is going to take.

But when he groans painfully and drops his head forward to her stomach she instinctively lifts her hands to his shoulders, holds them as he rests against her. She can feel his breath warm through the thin material of her dress and she leans into it, bending slightly, her chin on his head and if they could just stay like that then it wouldn’t be so bad, wouldn’t be so messy.

“We’ve still got the back-up plan.” He mumbles against her and she enjoys the sensation of his words vibrating against her skin.

“Oh yeah,” she shifts her chin, realises he is rubbing her hips with his thumbs, “do we wait until the decision is made before we put it into action?”

“Sure.”

“Because there’s a fair amount of crew to dispose of.”

“Pay them off,” he presses his face even harder against her, “or drugs.”

“Drugs or money, seems a fair assessment of most of the shit I deal with.”

“Dad’s a cunt,” he says and she closes her eyes. She thinks this too, but Roman loves him nevertheless, never mind the way he’s been treated over the years. She’s witnessed physical violence on more than one occasion – maybe that’s what this is, trying to offer him some kind of warmth in a world where all he’s ever known is coldness and fear and back-biting and pain. Not even a mother to protect him.

But she doesn’t want to be his mother. And that’s where this all gets a bit confusing.

“You want me to insult you now?” She asks tentatively, one hand moving from his shoulder to play in his hair, looking down at him still pressed against her.

He’s silent for a moment, as if thinking it over, and then he shakes his head, just slightly, enough though. He seems different, she thought so yesterday too, but assumed it would wear off now he was back in the fold and thoughts of terrorists could be banished.

She’s stumped as to what to do next. Does she stand there for an eternity letting him hold her, does she pat him on the head and tell him to man up and leave her the hell alone so she can work?

Just for once it would be nice not to have to make the decisions.

She was never very good at the whole domestic side of things, which is why this particular arrangement seems to work, because if anyone is worse at domesticity than her it appeared to be Roman. But maybe being domesticated was exactly what he needed.

“You smell good,” he says, his face shifting a little, he breathes deeply, pulls his head back just enough to kiss her stomach through her dress. She wonders what he feels there, the roundness of it compared to all those stick-thin girls he’s usually with. She can picture her stretchmarks, had never considered the fact anyone other than her husband and beautician might actually see them.

“You should go back out, enjoy the sun, hang out with the others in the water. Make the most of having a vacation.” She needs to break this, somehow, get a hold of the reins again and keep it tight and steady. She never dreamed he’d grow so attached. Or that she would. And she’s even more unsure about which of those things scares her more.

He leans back now and his face is flushed from where he’s had it pressed against her but his hands remain on her hips, in fact his fingers are pressing into her flesh so hard she knows he’ll have left tiny marks.

“You sending me back to play with my friends like a good little boy?”

She’s unsure if this is the starting point of their usual game, if she should be changing tact now and berating him. He had said no to that so she pauses. Waits. As still and patient as she always is.

“I’ve never had vanilla sex.” He states and she blinks several times, pursing her lips, playing out her response in her mind because she is always organised, always articulate.

“Roman…” she starts, because he’s looking at her in a way that makes her thighs tingle.

And then his hands slide around her back and pull her down to him and it’s awkward to begin with because her skirt is too long and her legs can’t bend but he pushes it out of the way and she’s in his lap, knees either side of his legs, and he’s holding her there, the warm sweet weight of her in his arms.

She feels clumsy, wants to put a hand down on the mattress to support herself because this feels precarious and she’s not entirely sure he won’t drop her for laughs.

“This is not a good idea,” she says.

But he smirks, as if now he is sure of himself.

“Of all the shitty ideas I’ve had in my life, this seems like the best one of them.”

And then he kisses her again, longer than the first time, and as it goes on his confidence improves and she can feel herself melting into it all. Her mouth opening, her tongue finding his, long moments of that often-considered passion they might have between them coming to life.

Desire. Chemistry. Whatever they called it. He’d searched high and low since he was about fourteen for it. And here it was now, all neatly wrapped up in this deep trust and affection he had for her.

He moaned her name and it surprised her, tasting the word on his lips, and she jerked her head back a little and he moved his hand from her back to cup her face instead and she wobbled on top of him, gasped when she thought she might fall until he did – lopping backward on the bed and her falling over him.

All that wondrous hair in his face.

He takes the opportunity to breathe her in. Pushes her hair back from her face.

“The research said no kissing.” She breathes heavily, he can feel her breasts against him.

“Hire a fucking moron look what you get.”

Her eyes sparkle, she enjoys this, this back and forth between them. A lightness to her days which are so often filled with dreary faced old men and never-ending legal correspondence.

“This crosses a line.”

“Don’t you think we crossed that a while back?” His hands are on her bottom, she can feel him bunching up the skirt behind her, and the thought he might see her naked suddenly seems such a daunting prospect.

“This is a very different line.”

“Alright, are you working out the pros and cons, counsellor?”

She presses her hands either side of his head, “The pros and cons of you fucking me… Hmm…”

“I don’t want to fuck you,” he interrupts, and she’s not sure she’s ever heard him sound so confident. “I want to please you.”

She actually laughs at that, feeling terribly lightheaded and a hundred years younger. She had never thought, never even imagined that there would be a younger man at this point in her life. Her dates have been so sporadic anyhow over the past few years and she very rarely finds one she wants to let into her apartment, let alone her bed.

When they kiss again it is she who directs it, a messy fumble of her hair caught between their faces and his fingers pushing up the material of her dress, his belt buckle in her stomach, his erection against her leg.

She presses her hands to his chest, pushes him a little so she can slide off of his body, give herself chance to breathe as she falls onto the bed, half sitting. Barefooted, her legs exposed, and he’s rolling onto his knees, kissing her shin, licking her leg, her knee, her thigh, as if he’s never eaten before and she does indeed feel she is being pounced on now, devoured.

“Roman,” she tries to sound authoritative but its lost in the low moan that escapes when his fingers move between her legs. She always expected him to be cocksure of himself, fast moving (too fast she presumes), but there’s timidity there with her as if he’s testing the waters and waiting for her permission to go further.

She thinks of the discomfort of breakfast and those faces turning on her and closes her eyes, eases back into the pillow and parts her thighs and he’s there instantly. She hadn’t thought of her underwear that morning as being particularly special, but she always orders the best, lace, silk, practical but attractive. She hopes he was under no illusion that somehow beneath her workwear she was going to be in some sort of dominatrix style get-up.

The image makes her smile, then smirk, because his fingers are toying with her panties as his eases them down and she blushes furiously at the idea he’s seeing her like this – half undressed, aroused, mussed.

“Good God,” she mutters, running a hand through her hair, “if anybody knew.”

“Fuck them all.”

He is kissing her, playing with her, toying with her, which amuses her no end because if anything she thought he would be totally useless at this. But he’s focussed in a way she’s not used to, perhaps he’s watched enough porn over the years to have a decent idea of what works and what doesn’t, and bless him he’s holding on longer than she thought he would. She’d actually imagined that if they did ever get to this point he would have come in his trousers before she’d even undressed him.

Her light, air-filled moans consume him, and there’s this unrelenting need to bring her pleasure. It doesn’t matter that it’s light in the room and he can see everything, or more to the point, she can see everything – she can see him, perhaps she always has.

Over the past months she’s taught him to be still, to focus, get the job at hand done and Christ he’s doing his best to remember that, as if her office training is going to be useful now. He could hump against her leg like a dog on heat, the smell of her consuming him, the sound of her… will he ever be able to listen to her in some boring-as-fuck meeting ever again without thinking of how she sounds when aroused? Of how her hips grind upward to him as she gets closer, at how she was so wet and warm when his fingers slid inside and the way she clenched her thighs around his head as she came.

This is the closest he can get to Gerri Kellman and it still doesn’t seem enough; he wants to consume her the way she has him.


	3. Chapter 3

He’s clambering up her body, wiping his face on her dress which both irritates and excites her, his hand cups her left breast and he buries his face against the other one.

She pats his back, is concentrating on getting her breathing back to normal, “Good boy.” She says, and there’s the slightest hint of sarcasm there which makes him laugh.

He pushes back, unsure who is in control in this situation and if it really matters anyhow.

But she looks at him in that all-knowing way, as if she can read his fucking mind like the bad-ass fucking bitch she is. She draws her legs up, pushes him back, gets to her knees. She’s lifting the dress up and over her body and he wonders if she’ll let him keep it so he can wipe himself with it every time he replays this scene as masturbating material.

He lifts a hand to touch her, leans forward.

“Ah, no, stay there,” she instructs and he lays back against the pillows.

“All the times I’ve sat in those fucking dull formulaic planning meetings wondering what kind of underwear you wore.” He says, a satisfied smile on his face.

She raises her eyebrows.

“And now I know more than the other slobs around that table.”

“One orgasm does not a master make, Roman.” She says. “Take your shirt off.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Her hands are on his belt buckle, opening him up, “The times I’ve had to listen to you doing this.” Her voice is cutting just momentarily as she drags his trousers down his legs and tosses them aside. “Do you even own underwear?” She is shaking her head but he’s smiling, proud of the fact he’s standing to attention for her, waiting for whatever it is she wants to give him.

“Now,” she leans over him, placing a hand to his torso. “So far you’ve proved almost competent.”

He smirks, “Almost? You seemed fine with the performance.”

“I had low expectations.”

He laughs and she can’t help but do so too, they aren’t playing that game, she isn’t going to scold him and send him in the bathroom to reflect on his behaviour. There’s something very different going on here. Something potentially even more dangerous.

He places his hand over hers, and she lifts them together, surprised at how nice it feels to fold her fingers around his.

She doesn’t think she’s ever been more aware of her body than she is when she straddles him, at the way he hastily pushes up pillows behind his head so he can half sit and watch her. But he doesn’t seem to care how she looks, or if he does he’s too aroused to really notice. That’s men, she spends almost every waking hour sorting out their shit, and a lot of the time its somehow connected to sex – when they’re aroused it seems they’ll do anything or have anything done to them.

There’s this constant internal battle she has with herself over Roman, and most of the time she pushes away her concerns, fills her brain with other things so she doesn’t have to really reflect on what’s happening. That she is dominating him – perhaps. That this is fucked up weird – sure. But to suggest she doesn’t care, that he’s just a toy in this game that she’s manoeuvring for her own needs – that she would argue with.

She’s keenly aware of how it might look to outsiders, of what she’d be labelled as (some surrogate mother oedipal type), but then nobody knows what’s in her heart, she doesn’t share her emotions, not her personal ones, because its one of the few things in this screwed up life she lives that remains hers.

Like this. Them. This secret they have. Even before the jerk-call, as she now likes to refer to it, when he was texting, calling, asking her to come over. There was something there that they kept between the two of them, maybe through embarrassment, maybe because they both sense there’s something wrong about all this (though she suspects that’s part of the attraction for him, or it was, at the start). But who else does he send memes to at 1:30 in the morning just to make her laugh? Who else does he bombard with messages at some corporate cocktail party?

There was this almost girlish realisation that he liked her. And yes, a fair amount of smugness about that, because she was older and the tall blonde he had decorating his arm wasn’t holding his attention the way she was. She was too sensible and too intelligent to have such thoughts, but then again she was human, and having a young man fixated on her was a turn-on, she wouldn’t deny that. But perhaps her own conceit blinded her to how far this was going, over weeks, months, how much it had built up, that the connection they now had to each other have overridden the ones they had to others.

So, as she’s sitting in his lap kissing him – letting him take off her bra, letting him move his mouth over her breasts, letting him touch whatever he likes – there is no shortness of trepidation. But one simple thing replaces all those concerns knocking around inside her head. Joy. And for the moment, she thinks she might indulge in that.

It is she who takes the lead, as he expected/wanted, though when she takes hold of his erection and guides him inside her he thrusts so hard forward she gasps and he thinks he’ll come immediately.

“Wait,” she says, a finger on his mouth. “Slow.” And then she presses two fingers to his lips and he sucks on them, holding her eyes with his own.

He always thought she looked like she knew what she was doing, and when she undulates her hips against him, around him, his theory is confirmed. She isn’t shy, which he appreciates, and she forces him to take his time – a hand to his chest, nails in his skin, holding his jaw when he’s sucking too hard on the flesh of her neck and might leave a mark. Throwing out directions and instructions he follows to the letter as if she’s teaching him something new, as if he’s never done this before.

She appreciates though the physical pain of having to wait, of the fact his balls feel ready to explode, and in time she allows him to push harder, further, faster. For his hands to grab at her hips and direct the rhythm, he seems to like it when she leans forward, her hand on the headboard, the wall of her vagina scraping along his penis – and that’s pretty much all he takes until he’s jerking so forcefully inside her she feels this pleasurable power rise up in her chest. She’s not one to usually get there again so quickly but he seems to be enjoying it so much and is so overcome with it all that she lets herself go and as soon as he’s climaxed she does the same. Half on her knees above him, panting and grasping for air.

“Fuck I didn’t think it’d be that good.” He suddenly says into the silence and she can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous it all is. At how foolish they must look in this position and the oddity of her body on his. She closes her eyes at that thought, his mouth is on her breasts again, holding them in his palms as if weighing them up. She always thought it strange how much men enjoyed breasts.

“Oh God,” she moans, lowering herself down, feeling him slip out of her.

“Gerri,” he is reverent, a hand moving to her face.

“Mmm, I’m too old for this,” she complains, her knees aching, legs cramping. And besides, his attentions are embarrassing her a little. She clambers off of him, reaching for the sheets to try and cover at least some of her as she flops down beside him. For a second she thinks of all the rock-hard fake boobs he must have encountered before as hers move decidedly normally with gravity.

“We are going to do that again, right?” He asks boyishly, propping his head up on one hand to look down at her.

“Not in the next half-hour,” she deadpans, closing her eyes. “Ohhhh fuck….” She exhales, running a hand through her hair. “Do men get the guilt thing?” she asks, turning her face to his.

“Not often.” He admits and he’s a little stung by the question. “This is guilt?”

“This is a mess. Don’t pout like that.”

“I thought it was amazing.”

“It was… rather good,” she allows, “…which is why it’s a mess.”

“But like, don’t just –,”

“All those people out there Roman,” she gestures, “if they knew what we had just…”

“I don’t give a fuck-o-rama what anyone thinks.”

“You would. I know you would.”

“Jesus, can’t we just, you know, glow in the moment for a while. Like,” he snuggles down beside her again. “That was seriously good, right, not just semi-fun you’re riding on the rollercoaster quick zonk of excitement fun, but serious fun.”

She sniggers at that, because he’s so close and her body is still tingling and there’s this pounding aching pleasure between her thighs.

“So, a rollercoaster now?” She arches an eyebrow.

He shrugs, “All types of jokes about riding.”

“Don’t make them now.”

“A request.”

“Go.”

“Wear your glasses next time, for the extra thrill.”

She squeezes his arm.

“I thought you’d be off as soon as it was over,” she says as they lay there side-by-side.

“Yeah, me too. Strange.”

“Hmm…” she can smell them in the room and feels decidedly sticky and hot. “I need to clean up.” She states, pushing herself to sit, holding the bedsheet against her chest. “Don’t look.”

“Fuck that.”

“Roman!”

“We’ve just fucked like rabbits and now I’m not supposed to look as you go to the bathroom.”

“I feel exposed. And how the hell do you know how rabbits fuck, I think that’s a myth anyhow.”

“They do go at it,” he semi-follows her request by lying on his back and half staring at the ceiling. “Watched a video clip once to check it out, rabbit got the moves.”

He knows she’s rolling her eyes as she disappears behind the bathroom door.

“Like dogs.”

“What?” She calls over the sound of running water.

“Like dogs, they go at it too.”

“Animal sex stories were not on my agenda today.”

“Ah, but seducing me was?”

She pops her head around the door, “Did I?”

“You know you did, wicked woman.”

“Bollocks.” She disappears again.

“They’re good to watch, you get ideas on positions.”

She is coming out of the bathroom, her underwear is back on and she’s put some shirt on, its open but clearly she likes the fact it’s covering some bits. Her face is pinker than usual, and her hair still has this slightly messed up look about it and he feels a sense of pride in the fact these things are linked to him. She’s always so buttoned up and precise and he feels almost obnoxious about the fact he’s played some part in making her come undone, and, more to the point, that he gets to lay here now and watch her. Black lace against pale skin.

“So, what about two orgasms, do I get a sticker for that?”

“Yes. You’ve been a very good boy, well done. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Thank you, Gerri.” He sounds like a child.

“Spoiled brat.” She takes a bottle of water out of the fridge, takes a long drink before she kneels on the bed again, positioning herself next to him on the plumped-up pillows. She passes him the water and he enjoys that too, sharing it with her, she could have brought two, there are plenty in there.

“This is the left in the desert to die bit,” he says, stretching his body out.

“As in?”

“What do you do after the whole sex thing?”

She shrugs, “I was never very good at that either. Clean up and go home.”

“Now I know why you prefer the phone shit.”

“Who said I preferred it?” He watches as she crosses her legs at the ankle, is oddly intrigued by the shape of her ankles in the same way he’s started fixating on her wrists in meetings. “This has potential.”

“Not a complete fuck-up.” He somehow seems to bounce forward down the bed, and she is reminded again just of his insatiable energy and the boundless zest for life he seems to have.

She wants to tell him she never really sees him as a fuck up, that actually she spies potential beneath that kid-like exterior, and if only he gave himself the time and energy he could be quite brilliant.

“Not a complete one, no,” is what she says instead, spying him as he lies at the opposite end of the bed, his hand hovering near her feet.

He is still naked and the intimacy that comes with the two of them lying there at opposite ends with full view of the other is as intoxicating as any drug he’s ever inhaled.

“Not a foot fetish too?” she wiggles her toes, and there’s a sigh in her voice as if she is disappointed by yet another quirk of his character.

“Not until now,” he says, his hand is still hovering, not touching her yet, waiting for permission, eyes still dark and wide as if he’s still on a high. She read once sex was better than any drug in terms of what it did to your body, your brain.

She gives him a curt nod, “You can touch.” She instructs and he lifts one foot from on top of the other and lays it down upon the bedsheets. She thinks they must be slightly discoloured; they’ve been walking round the yacht barefooted for days. But he’s laid down by her feet now, critically observing, his index finger sliding down the arch, and then around her ankle, which is where his interest really seems focussed. She closes her eyes at the sensation, tilts her head back, can sense his concentration. When his mouth touches the side of her ankle she wants to laugh, it’s wet and ticklish, but she holds herself together, clearly he’s getting some kind of kick from this and she isn’t completely against the idea.

He licks, tastes her skin, suckles on her – thinks of all the times he’s watched her manoeuvre around parties, excusing herself from dull conversations, whispering information into the right person’s ear, putting out fires as everyone gets pissed around her. The times he’s seen boring old bastards leeching over her and she is sharp and polite and together. The times she’s slipped her shoes off when it’s going to be an all-night meeting.

She arches her legs, lets him move upward and along, she is ticklish behind her knee. The first time she jerks away and gasps, the second she giggles.

“Stop it there, Roman,” she instructs, but when he opens his eyes and looks up at her she is still smiling and he can still hear her laugh in the room so he does it a third time, and his fingers join in until she is squirming on the bed and this is what drives him on – to be with her like this.

“You got any other ticklish spots?”

“No,” she is pulling herself back up the bed, trying to sit again, “and you can fuck off if you think I’d tell you anyway.”

He mimes rolling up his shirtsleeves, on his knees now, a polished foreign accent as he twitches his fingers in mid-air. “Let the Doctor see the patient.”

“You don’t have the staying power to train to be a Doctor,” she tries to argue, fighting off his hands with her own, but he grabs at her waist until she’s shuffling down the bed again and twisting and squirming beneath him.

He thinks he’ll remember the two of them laughing together for the rest of his life.

*  
  


“Must be lunch,” he says sometime later, “there must be food out.”

She glances at the bedside clock, feels her stomach rumble and remembers she didn’t eat breakfast.

“It means getting dressed I suppose,” she forces herself to sit, but the longer they’ve laid on that bed chatting and laughing the more lethargic she’s felt.

He stares at her back, the way she’s rolling her neck, shaking out her hair and he doesn’t want this to end quite yet which, if he really thought it, would terrify the fuck out of him more than any terrorist.

“I’ll go,” he states, jumping to his feet, dragging his trousers on before she has time to turn. “Bring stuff back.”

“Won’t they notice you filling two plates?”

“Nobody ever notices me.” He yanks his shirt on, fumbling with the buttons. “Part of my superpower.”

“Mmm,” she nods, reflecting on what he’s saying. “Bring wine, maybe,” she adds, already settling down again.

“What the fuck you take me for?”


	4. Chapter 4

He’s gone and back within ten minutes, there’s a buffet laid out and he fills a plate with enough for the two of them, tries to choose things he thinks she might like, things he’s seen her pick for herself. There’s only Greg around, seated at the table eating and he’s deep in thought. No sign of Shiv, though he heard she and Tom might be spending the day at some cove or other. Connor is asleep by the pool but he can’t spot anyone else.

He slips his hand around the neck of a bottle of Champagne, swings it between his fingers as he slides his way out into the corridor, unnoticed, as he thought. There’s a maid coming towards him as he nears her door, and he slows his footsteps until she’s passed and disappeared at the other end of the boat.

He taps his foot loudly against the door and it opens immediately, “Get the hell in here.” She snaps.

It’s not the first time he’s shared lunch with her but it’s certainly the first time they’ve done so half naked.

“How is it out there?”

“Fulfilled its destiny as death cruise.”

She snorted, “That good, hey.”

“Only Greg around, useless prick. I’d throw him overboard now if it meant saving you.” He’s waving a lobster claw at her and she can’t help but recall Shiv’s story and wonder all over again just why she’s with this man child.

“You do realise you can’t always get what you want,” she says, lounging on her side of the bed, taking hold of the half-empty plate and moving it clear as he twists and plants his feet on her headboard.

“And that’s a fucking lie, money gets you anything and everything, surely an old gal like you has realised that.”

Of all the things he calls her – and there have been plenty – that’s the only one she prickles at. But she’ll store it for later, when he’s not feeling quite so intimate and phones her up just to be chastised and get off.

“You can’t always be a spoiled brat, Roman, as tempting as it seems. I know it’s been the easy way to approach life but still.”

He twists his head to look at her, and she briefly thinks how ridiculous he looks with his legs up in the air and his feet tapping on the plush headboard and his soft dick disappearing between his legs.

She moves the plate aside, lunch over, and turns too so she’s beside his head, her legs curled beneath her.

“You know at some point, because let’s be honest, you’re nearly forty, as some point you’re going to have to bite the silvery bullet and grow the fuck up.”

He narrows his eyes, “Mm, not selling it to me but please, do continue.”

“Don’t be a prick.” She finds herself turning again, mirroring his posture, upside down on the bed with her feet beside his on the headboard. “You could have it all, but if you’re going to be CEO you’re going to have actually, you know, do some fucking work.”

He’s not sure if he’s hurt by her words or not, he feels like he wants to protest like a kid and tell her about how he did the training programme because she told him to, not because of his Dad. But he senses now is the time to keep his mouth shut. So, he focusses on her feet being beside his on the plush grey velvet.

“No more game playing, no more half-arsed attempts at getting things done. Short cuts. Skipping meetings. Not reading the material I send you. If you want to be taken seriously then stop behaving like a child – because, accidental or not, blowing up a rocket on a launchpad for the fireworks is really not that much different from when I had to beg for you not to be expelled from your fourth school for setting fireworks off in the cafeteria. In both cases, you could have taken a life.”

“I was sixteen.”

“You were a dick.”

“I lusted after you then, scooting behind you to the Principle’s office like some starving dog.”

“An admonished dog, from what I recall.”

They turn their heads simultaneously to look at one another.

“Christ, you’re hot,” he blurts and she smiles.

“I’m not saying this to be cruel.”

“I know, I know. Sharpen myself up, sort myself out. Heard it a lot over the years.”

“Yeah, but you’ve made a good start, see it through now.”

“And what about, you know, all this…” he gestures between them, “you?”

“Me?” Her eyebrows raise, “It remains to be seen whether I’ll still be here. But you will. And you can do this job, with or without me.”

“I meant us, Gerri, not the company.”

She is dumbfounded by that.

“Is there an _us_?” She is sceptical.

“There’s been one for months, hasn’t there?” He worries he’s overthought it all now, fantasised about her so much it’s addled his brain. “I mean, call me a moron but I’m doubtful that you get many of the executive floor ringing you at two in the morning for you to berate them to orgasm.”

She sucked her bottom lip, “Nope, definitely a first. And in a career as long and fucked up as mine that’s saying something.”

“So explain to me why that doesn’t equal an us then.”

“Because kinky phone sex does not equate _forever together_.”

“No, but it’s a bit beyond the usual buddy behaviour.”

“What do they call it, I’m your… your…”

“My fucking bootie call!” He roars and she slaps his arm to be quiet. “Fuck me Gerri, a fucking fuck me bootie call.”

“Shut the fuck up.” She turns her head away from his as he laughs. “I don’t know why you’re finding that so damned funny.”

“Because,” he’s still laughing and he forces himself to wait before he speaks again because what he has to say is more than just heavy breathing over a phone line and wanking off to the sound of her voice.

“Because?” She prompts, irritated with him now.

“Because like… you know what I mean.”

“Uh-huh, because you’re being so bloody transparent.”

“I like the way words sound in your mouth.” He finally says and she narrows her eyes so he continues, twisting his body a little on the bed so he’s half leaning over her again. “I like the way you march about no-nonsense and everyone in that office fears you. How quick your mind works.”

“Roman.” She sighs, doesn’t want to hurt him. “This can’t be, not for real, not in reality. You and I? Come on. I’m too old for you.”

“What does age matter?”

“It –,”

He cuts her off, “Come on Ger, how often we seen some young gorgeous girl out with some dried-up old sod?”

“Oh thanks.”

“No, you’re not –,” he feels a bit flustered, and she’s the only person who’s ever got him that way. “You’re gorgeous, you know that, you’ve got this whole hot and sexy librarian school ma’am thing going on.”

She is frowning now and he thinks he must do better.

“I like your mind, your intelligence,” he says quickly, “the fact you talk to me, like really talk to me. Not just assume I’m too dumb to understand. You give me your time and you don’t have much of it so I realise how valuable that is.”

She is softening now; her feet have shifted and one of hers is pressed over his on the headboard.

“And then there’s the obvious.”

“Which is?”

“The eyes, the mouth, the confidence. You know what you’re doing.”

She smiles at him, because he’s trying so very hard to please and get it all out how he sees it in his head.

“I like being with you,” he settles on, “These days I feel like I only want to be with you.”

For a moment she is silent, because she thinks he might have just bared his heart a little to her then and she realises what that will have cost him. And she does care, so very much it seems now, and perhaps that’s a revelation to her too.

“You’d get bored,” she finally says, “I’m not going to hang out in some sleazy club being pawed at by naked girls covered in glitter pissing all over me.”

“Lucky for you I’m not a fan of the golden shower.” Though he’s amused by the image and he wonders how many times she’s had to get men out of situations like that.

“Roman, you have a life to live, a wife, children.”

He pulls a disgusted face.

“Alright then, but really, me? In ten year’s time you are not going to want to fuck me.”

“I might,” he shrugs hopelessly, because he’s never been able to think past the next week let alone the next year. “I think I will in twenty years.”

“Bugger off. What are we gonna do – turn up together at the family Christmas hand-in-hand?”

“I wouldn’t mind that.” The truth is he’s been fantasising about that too.

“Everything seems so easy to you.”

“Or maybe you make everything too hard.” He reaches for her hand, holds it on his stomach. “The bigger question is what you’d be doing settling for a doofus like me.”

“I guess that is the bigger question.”

She lets her legs slip down, turns onto her side to face him, one hand stroking his cheek. She worries then, just for a moment, that she’s allowed this to go too far and this man is now attached to her, that they are far too deep into it to back out. But then she tries to imagine backing out and not being with him like this and it hurts.

She reaches for the Champagne standing on the bedside table, takes a drink from the bottle.

He opens his mouth, “Pour it down my throat.”

“You’ll choke.” She takes another drink herself.

“Do it…” he tries to command and she rolls her eyes as she tentatively dribbles some of the liquid onto his tongue.

“Your Dad will kill either one of us.”

“Now, I have a question about that,” he says, tipping his legs down and falling into her. “And don’t get all snooty about it.”

“Go on.” She hands him the bottle and he takes a proper drink.

“You and Dad, you ever, you know, on the company time?”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that question.”

“Well I don’t know, you were young once, your family hung round with ours all the time, could’ve been like the Kris Jenner lot, all sleeping together, wife swapping and that shit, threesomes.”

“Do I really strike you as that kind of woman?”

“Come to think of it…”

“I can assure you Roman this is the most sexually scandalous thing I’ve done. Was never really that into it.”

“Funny. Me neither. Always felt a bit too close for comfort, and besides, I wasn’t very good at it.”

“Practice makes perfect.” She teases.

“Time for another lesson, then?”

“If you can be patient and follow instructions, then I’m willing to teach.”


	5. Chapter 5

At some point they must have fallen to sleep, but then she’s not had three orgasms since she was in her thirties and her body feels like some lump of sated softness. They are all arms and legs as they lie there afterwards, sweat between them, his body stuck on top of hers, her legs wrapped around him and that musky overwhelming scent filling the room. He can’t seem to stop kissing her – mouth, neck, clavicle, shoulders – and then all over again, tasting and suckling on her like she might disappear.

She might disappear.

When he flops to one side she figures she’ll just rest her eyes for a while, but then she’s dozy and her body is nestling into the bed and she keeps thinking how what they just did was nothing like fucking, it was making love, and she wonders if he knows that.

When she wakes she is unsurprised to find his head on her breast, his body half over hers. For the many stories she’s heard about Roman shirking intimacy maybe he just needed to be shown the right kind, she muses. And she lies there for a long time stroking his back and listening to him sleep on top of her.

She has no idea where this is all going and there’s an element of excitement in that too.

It doesn’t take her long to realise the cabin is darker, the sun has shifted, and she glances to the clock and taps his back whispering, “Roman.”

When he doesn’t move she snaps his name and he almost stands to attention.

“Don’t do that,” he mumbles against her nipple, and then he wakes and seems to realise the position he’s laid in and she’s not sure if he’s disturbed by that or not but he goes very quiet against her for the longest time.

“I need to get up,” she says, “shower, get ready for dinner. We need to be there.”

He mumbles against her, presses his mouth into her breast, breathes her in like he won’t get the chance again.

“Come on,” she instructs as the minutes pass. “Shift over, let me up.”

He does so reluctantly, watches through one open eye as she goes into the bathroom, naked, pale, curvy. She seems more human now, he worried once he knew – once they’d crossed this line – he would get bored, because she is only human after all, but no, the desire is still there, to crawl inside her and sleep. To lock her in his penthouse and keep her only for him. She is still a goddess.

“Want me in there?” He asks, flopping onto his back, running a hand through his messed hair.

“Whatever for?” She calls back and he thinks she’s brushing her teeth.

“You know, help and stuff, give you a good sudding.” He sits up, surveying the room – their clothes in a pile, her green dress he intends to steal.

“No, I don’t.” She pops her head around the door at his protests. “You can’t have it all at once, did nobody tell you that?” She is wearing a robe now.

“I always have it all.”

“Well,” she leans over him, tapping his nose. “Don’t be greedy. Go on, clear off,” she indicates the door.

“What? You’ve got to be kidding.”

Her arms are folded but her expression is softer than usual. “Out,” she jerks her thumb to the door. “I need to get ready, and a moment to myself. Go get yourself cleaned up, you’re filthy,” but she leans forward and presses a kiss to his forehead before returning to the bathroom.

*

When he sees her again she is standing by the dining table leaning on the back of a chair listening to Tom and Greg arguing, she’s wearing red which catches him off guard somewhat – she is luminous in the scant lights above them, her face shining, and he wonders how she does that when he’s barely showered and pulled on a fresh shirt. His hair is still a mess and he feels a sense of terror as he approaches the dining table, apart from some muted chatter it seems deathly silent and he catches Shiv’s eye as she takes a seat at the top of the table, right by Dad’s side.

His heart is racing, he can hear the blood pumping in his ears, and he glances to Gerri for some kind of comfort. She is still leaning on the back of a chair, the second one down, and as she pulls it out to sit he figures he’ll go next to her, across from Shiv, only Tom bypasses his place beside his wife and sits next to Gerri instead and he feels like he wants to shove the toad over the side, chair and all.

He’s got no patience for this, he passes Frank quickly, if the old fossil put a hand on that chair he’d neck him. He grabs the back of the chair, yanks it out before Frank reaches it.

“Subtle,” she whispers, lifting her wine glass to her mouth.

“Yeah well, best seat.” He reaches for his glass.

“You take something of mine earlier?” She asks lowly, her face turned towards him, eyebrows arched. He only smiles in response over the top of his glass, enjoying the shared knowledge on the whereabouts of her dress.

Greg is talking to her, Roman can hear the idiot mumbling stuff at them, he half tunes in, trying to listen past the buzzing in his ears.

“Yeah is it a different colour?”

“Well, I don’t usually wear red lipstick,” she says and he glances to her face and thinks of how beautiful she looks, and curses the moron for pointing that out before he could, but then he figures Gerri won’t really care about things like that. Her hair looks different too, the parting is different, and he’s not sure if this is because he knows her now – really _knows_ her – that he feels she looks sexier than ever or because their afternoon in her cabin has brought it out of her. But god she looks delicious. And it's surprising how long it takes him to realise she isn't wearing her glasses, and that seems a first for an occasion like this, and he thinks yeah, maybe he's had an affect on her too.

“It’s a good colour, suits you,” Greg adds.

But Roman is looking past her now, to his brother, a pale imitation of a human. He knows immediately and his stomach drops – it’s not Gerri, it’s Kendall, and he’s hard pushed to know how to take that because they’re the two people in the world he cares the most about.

He can’t take his eyes from his brother, feels like crying when he looks over at him (another first) and Ken gives him the nod on his new position – he is proud of him, it’s in his eyes, and that kills him. He feels Gerri move her leg beside him, touching his deliberately, a slither of comfort in an otherwise shit-show of a moment. She looks at him, fleetingly from under her hair, and there’s something in her eyes, pride too perhaps, some kind of knowing look, maybe it’s that their pact is coming together, maybe it’s affection.

He hardly eats. And he should be hungry but there’s this sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, like being lost.

How fragile it all is, he thinks, spending the afternoon in the most joyous of ways with her and then this, like the world has crashed down right after you’ve found happiness. He never knew what it was before and now he’s scared he won’t get it again. Everything has moved, shifted, tilted.

There’s hardly any chatter as they eat, and people scatter as soon as they can. He stalked the deck, took some air, caught his father whispering something to Gerri at the table as she leaned in close. He feels this ridiculous need to claim her right then, but he remains rooted to the spot. She momentarily looks away from the conversation, over Logan’s head and to him, but it’s the tiniest of glances and then her eyes are gone again.

Shifting about from foot-to-foot, hands dug in his pockets, Shiv is the one to approach. She stands half facing him but not looking at him and he wonders what she knows, her eyes are red and he’s unsure why. He never sees his sister cry.

“Back of the boat, five minutes, us only.”

He nods, swishes round to the ocean, trying to hide his face.

“How you doing?” She asks from behind him, over his shoulder, close enough to whisper, not too close to draw suspicion.

“Pretty fucking terrible. Kinda wish I had got shot now.”

“Don’t say that,” she briefly touches his elbow and he glances back at her, thinks what a waste of a lovely outfit.

He turns back to the water, the darkness, “You know how in horror films you’ve usually got some virgin getting laid right before some psycho stabs them in the eye or something.”

“A-ha.”

“Well, that’s how I feel. Lost my virginity. Got stabbed.”

She wants to touch him again but doesn’t.

She sighs heavily, she would like to congratulate him on his position but now is not the time. People speak of Roman as a playboy, but he feels, she’s known that since he was a child. Sensitivity hidden away, or beaten out of him, covered up with a quick joke or a cheap quip.

“You spoken to Kendall?”

“Going to meet with them all now.”

“Alright. Go, be with your siblings,” he can feel her breath on his neck and she seems to have leaned in closer, “I’ll leave the door unlocked. If you like.”

His head drops forward and she leaves him be, goes to her room to take care of the paperwork, to draft the statement with Karolina over the phone. She isn’t surprised it’s Kendall, she suspected as much, and as much as she’s sorry for the poor bastard (and even more so for the sadness Roman is feeling) she can’t help the sense of relief that she has escaped. At least for now.

It’s after two by the time they finish working and she hangs up her phone. She undresses, removes her jewellery and make-up and turns off the lights. For a moment she stands by the door, listens out for movement but there is none, she suspects he’s gone to bed alone which is perfectly understandable, or has passed out on one of the sofas up on deck – again, understandable.

She flicks the key in the lock, and then changes her mind, opening it again, just in case.

Once in bed she’s asleep within minutes. No time to even reflect on the potentially life-changing events of the day.

She isn’t aware of the time when her eyes flicker open, just that there’s movement in the room by her bed, she lays perfectly still on her side, back to the door. At first she feels a sense of panic and then her brain kicks in and she hears trousers being unbuckled and dropping to the floor and then the bed dips behind her.

She closes her eyes again, can sense he is lying on his back, likely staring at the ceiling, some distance between them. And that’s fine too, because he needs that, can’t cope with all of the intimacy all at once, and neither can she really.

But in time she feels him move and turn, lifting the bedsheets from her body, sliding his arm over her waist and she lifts her arm out of the way, letting his hand rest on her stomach. She places her hand over his, pats it gently, and then drifts off to sleep with him pressed up against her.


End file.
